I stood alone in a remote Guatemalan village constructed with mud surrounded by fog and silence. I looked in the Love Hut, where I had last seen Sara and Luke. It was empty.
I walked to the store, bought food and drinks, and returned to square one, where the lovebirds had reappeared.
With her hands on her hips, Sara said, “Young man, where have you been? It’s hours past curfew!”
“Yuritzi gave me an all-night tour of the Mayan cosmos, and, boy, are my feet sore!”
Luke was impressed. “You were with her all night?”
Sara, who was back to being Sara, asked, “What did little old you do to impress her enough to make her want to hang out all night? She must have seen you licking your eyebrow.”
“Works every time.”
Sara giggled. “Did you fall in love with the young lass like everyone else?”
“Of course. I proposed marriage. She gave me a number and told me to get in line. My number is 3.1416; therefore, my chances are infinitely bad. I did fall under her spell. That must happen to everyone she meets. I miss her already.”
Luke sighed, “There’s Yuritzi, and then there’s the rest of us mere mortals.”
“Well, I’m in awe. When she left, I thought I was about to cry, which occurs once a decade. The last time was when I watched a rerun of “The Brady Bunch” on TV. I think that’s a normal reaction, don’t you?”
Sara, being Sara, “And did you have your wicked way with her?”
Luke, annoyed that anyone would sully Yuritzi’s holy and sacred character, yelled, “Come on!”
I put their minds at ease. “Good Lord, no. I would have died due to advanced performance anxiety. Besides, I met her dad, who gave me the familiar fatherly look that said, ‘If you intend on keeping your offensive apparatus in functional order, then don’t even think about it.’”
“Liar. Your cheeks are rosy red. Are they flushed with success? How were her cheeks? Did you approve?”
Luke, perfectly offended, chimed in, “Sara!?”
I jumped in. “I’m sure the aforementioned cheeks are lovely. I never got there—Scout’s honor. Speaking of flushed, are you aware of the plumbing arrangement in this town? It’s disgusting.”
Luke was amused. “Hey, Big Guy. Welcome to the rest of the world. Eye-opening, huh.”
Luke, who had returned to being Saint Luke, said we would shuffle off to Mexico because more good deeds were in our immediate future. This time, we’d be helping rebuild a small schoolhouse across the border from unlovely Guatemala. So, Sara and Luke jumped in the front seats, and I crawled onto the flatbed, hoping to crash for a few hours during the drive since I hadn’t slept in a few days.
The lovebirds seemed to be getting along. Although, in terms of conversation, they were treading the boards lightly and being very cautious with each other. It wasn’t an uneasy truce. It sounded more like a couple on a stilted first date: polite and friendly but on unsteady ground. I listened to them chat for the first five minutes before falling asleep.
On the road to Hell, these two.
I woke up eight hours later. It took less than a minute to sense the tension between Sara and Luke. They were snapping at each other with single-word calls and responses:
Sara: Here!
Luke: Fine!
Sara: Hurry!
Luke: Wait!
Sara: Loser!
Luke: Bitch!
Sara: Brilliant.
Luke: What?!
Sara: Loser!
Luke: Bitch!
Me: Perhaps you’d like to elaborate.
Sara: Go back to sleep.
Luke: Just don’t say anything.
Drew: You two crazy kids! I’m going to mingle with the fun crowd.
Drew: [Leaves to meet the locals.]
We were in the village where the good citizens attempted to repair their only schoolhouse. I didn’t ask if the friendly Mexican government emissaries may have recently visited their town and painstakingly vandalized the schoolhouse to provide unwavering support for the education of its treasured children in rural Mexico. Based on the destruction, the helpful emissaries did break up the place.
As with almost everyone I met in Chiapas, the townsfolk had a consistent sense of optimism. They were realistic about their current condition and were determined to make the best of things, few and far between those things may have been.
The reconstructing project was at a standstill because some necessary building supplies had yet to arrive. This meant we could take the day off and rest. The lovebirds seized the opportunity to storm off and bark at each other.
It also meant we needed to work nonstop the following day. When I say “we,” I mean “the locals and me.” No Luke, no Sara, no jeep. It was unseasonably hot, and the humidity was just under 275%. We developed quite a friendship while putting the school back on its feet. I taught them some tasteless English phrases, and they enjoyed learning them. We were having fun. Time to complete the project was limited, so we worked like mad dogs for close to five hours. The next thing I knew, I was lying in a makeshift bed, staring at the ceiling of a hospital in Tapachula. It seems I passed out and was taken there. I have no recollection of the trip. I clearly remember the nurse standing over me and replacing IV bags.
Now, a hospital in the good old USA of America is usually in a big building with administrative personnel, nurses, doctors, and medical equipment, plus the admitting person who verifies you have insurance from a company the hospital likes and makes you cough up the copay before letting you get medical treatment.
The admitting person is the key to this whole hospital endeavor.
You may be rushed to the hospital, wheeled in on a stretcher to an emergency room with multiple gunshot wounds, and, thanks to the substantial blood loss, you may be unconscious.
The admitting person gives you fifteen forms to fill out. He or she says, “Gimme your insurance card and credit card.”
You can’t respond, of course. You’re unconscious on accounta of the blood loss.
The admitting person follows up with, “Look! Do you want treatment or not? Can you stop bleeding in my office long enough to give your credit card?”
After receiving no response, the person yells directly in your ear, “Come on, a-hole. What are you, stupid?”
This is followed by Bob in the hospital’s accounting department rifling through your blood-soaked clothes, including your phone, to get your insurance information and credit card.
Assuming Bob’s successful, Shirley from the legal department writes “refuses to sign” on the fifteen forms. After multiple departments sign off on forms that relieve the hospital of all liability, you’ll be lined up behind all the other patients for potential review by a physician’s assistant who has some familiarity with human anatomy after passing, on the third try, Biology 101 thereby enabling the physician’s assistant to take precise measurements of your blood pressure and temperature providing beneficial information to the emergency room doctor because your blood pressure is “seventeen over five” and your temperature is “eighty-something” which, based on the physician’s assistant’s experience with these things, seem low. Eventually, the doctor, who is in the middle of a 240-hour shift and, thanks to all the amphetamines and Demerol, a little punchy, advises you that “gunshot wounds aren’t my thing but, hell, I dunno, I’ll give it a shot, no pun intended” and tells at the physician’s assistant to “get me some more Demerol, stat, on accounta Jobu, needs a refill!”
That’s the best outcome.
Let’s say Bob couldn’t find your insurance or credit card. If that’s the case, things get a bit bleak. Bob will order you an Uber using the Uber app on your phone and promptly wheel you out of the emergency room. The Uber driver shall tie you and the stretcher to the top of the car so you don’t bleed on the car’s seats and take you to an “urgent care” facility where a janitor wheels you in on your stretcher to someone who definitely doesn’t look like a doctor but, two days later, provides timely medical care by putting band-aids on the puncture wounds, suggests you see a real doctor before wheeling you out to the parking lot so you don’t keep bleeding on the floor.
On the very safe assumption that you’re dead at this point, some billing company sues your estate for $23,000 for the stretcher you never returned, $1,800 for the band-aids, plus costs for cleaning up all the blood.
My experience at the hospital near the village was slightly different.
The hospital was in a building, and a roof was involved. Otherwise, it had an open-air motif. There were no rooms. With the utmost concern for patient privacy, random sheets were hung from the ceiling between beds, thus making it possible to hear everything.
I was disoriented but regained my senses after receiving a few liters of something approximating water. I was told that I was dehydrated to the extreme.
I noticed my suitcase with all my worldly possessions was next to me. No Luke, no Sara. Just a nice nurse-type person checking in periodically and hooking up another liter.
Someone was giving birth two-bed sheets to my right. Of course, we all grow up hearing about the magic of these things—the spiritual bliss, the happiness, and the beauty of bringing a newborn into the world.
All lies. Not a word of truth to any of it.
I didn’t get the impression the lucky lady found the experience uplifting at all. Oh, she was pissed. She said a lot of bad words. The attending nurse told me the mother-to-be said a word that, when directly translated, means “kill him.”
She said it a lot.
There were plenty of troubling noises echoing from behind the sheets. I had no idea the hideous series of sounds I heard were associated with the joys of childbirth. Plus, the (presumptive) father passed out during the sacred moment, causing the mother to spew emphatic rage in his general direction.
As delightful as all that was, another patient was five feet to my left behind a fragile sheet. She was having severe stomach pain and was crying loudly. The nurse or doctor was concerned about a blockage of some kind. She also needed to pass something, but it wasn’t a baby. The staff attempted to relieve said blockage by any means necessary, producing a series of animal noises that, while not as alarming as those during childbirth, weren’t enchanting.
They did whatever they could to address the blockage and decided to wait for nature to take its course.
The baby was born—a boy, by all accounts, and healthy. Mom was doing much better. Dad was still on the floor.
While listening to all the carnage, I finished six liters of fluid. If you’re scoring at home, that works out to a little over 1.5 gallons, which is a lot of water to introduce directly into your bloodstream, and the message from bladder to brain was urgent.
So, I gathered myself and made a mad dash to the bathroom with the fluid bag in hand. I made it about fifteen feet from my bed when the woman to my left said, “Uh-oh.” She meant every word of it. She scrambled up to go to the bathroom. That part was fine. There was only one functional bathroom in the building. That wasn’t fine.
I turned and saw her. The look of terror on her face was priceless. Let’s say you went skydiving. Everything was going just swell until you tried to pull the ripcord and discovered you forgot your parachute. Or, the bungee cord broke, and you immediately realized that, in seven hundred feet, you were going to be highly dead.
Think of your facial expression at those moments.
That’s what she looked like.
It was now a race to the bathroom before anyone had an accident—just her and me. Boy Tinkle vs Enema Woman. I had the lead. There was no way she could have made up the ground. The bathroom was all mine.
Lady, I own you. You’re so done.
Then, I considered the magnitude of our potential accidents. I let Enema Woman go first while I ran outside, IV in hand, to locate alternatives in the great outdoors. We both achieved our short-term goals. I came back inside ten pounds lighter. She left the bathroom looking like the woman who had just given birth.
I think her name was Rebecca.
She’ll always be Enema Woman to me.
Having settled matters at the hospital, I looked around for the lovebirds. They were nowhere to be found. I asked the hospital staff if they had heard anything from the person who dropped me off. One lovely lady who spoke a little English said the folks who dropped me off had yet to return. However, a decidedly non-Mexican couple in a jeep popped by shortly after I was deposited in the hospital, verified I wasn’t dead and left.
Well, isn’t that precious? They cared enough to make sure I was still breathing.
She said their visit was memorable as they spent ten minutes outside the hospital screaming at each other but managed to arrive at an amicable resolution, resulting in Luke throwing my suitcase into the hospital, grabbing Sara by her arm, flinging her into the jeep, and driving off.
I asked the lady who witnessed the lovebirds in action, “They didn’t say when they might be coming back this way, did they?”
Her answer was no, they didn’t. Further, as far as she was concerned, I’d be better off without them. She found them offensive. Their use of the English language was not to her liking. Plus, when the two of them weren’t yelling at each other, they were rude to the hospital staff.
“I’m sorry they were mean. You guys have been very nice, and I appreciate all your help. They shouldn’t have acted that way. Do you think they might return to pick me up?”
She almost laughed. “Oh, no! No, no, no.”
“Right. Right-O. Oh, I’m Drew, by the way.”
She owned up to being called Juanita. I asked her if she would give me the postcard version of the tenor of the conversation between Luke and Sara.
“Oh, I no can use the words they say. Not good, that word. No good, what they say.”
“Oh, Dear. I am sorry. Again.”
I gently prompted her to give me a clue about what they were yelling about. She frowned, shook her head, looked at the floor, and sighed. It was terrible, she said. Very bad.
“Oh, wow. How bad? I mean, they didn’t say they were going to kill someone or anything. Ha-ha. Right? I mean, it wouldn’t have been that bad. Not that they’d kill people. Ha-ha. I’m just being ridiculous. Right…right?”
Still avoiding eye contact, Juanita’s response was no. Emphatically, no. Their discussion reached depths well below homicide.
I started to panic. “What? I’m sorry to ask, but what did they talk about? Is someone in danger? Did he threaten to kill her? What could be worse than murder?”
Answer – Sex.
How would you like to be HER boyfriend?
She continued staring at the floor and said, “Oh, oh, the girl bad she says to him you lay her down in a bed. This is…”
“What?! [After a pause] I’m sorry. Again. You surprised me with that one. So, their argument was about me?”
She looked at me with grave concern and said their little outburst was undoubtedly about me and Sara. And the sex we never had. The sex Sara told Luke we did have. The sex we never had that, per the lovely lady’s recollection of their yelling match, caused Sara to insist I come down to Chiapas so we could have the sex we never had so that she could torment Luke with tales of all the sex we had that we never had, to say nothing of our affair during college. The one that we never had.
Juanita stopped talking for a minute and stared at me while awaiting my response.
“No, she and I never slept together.”
She looked relieved. “She says more that she and you…”
“That’s fine. I’m good. You don’t need to go on.”
At that moment, there were some logistical concerns. Besides being somewhere in southern Mexico, I needed to find out where I was, and I knew no one other than Sara and Luke, with whom contact was out of the question. Plus, it was getting dark. The town had plumbing and electricity, so that was good. Not that it was a bustling metropolis. There were no moving cars, buses, hotels, restaurants, 7-11s, nothing.
Fabulous. It can indeed be said that I, as we speak, don’t got dick. Nothing. So, what do you want to do now?
I asked Juanita for suggestions on where I might go for the night. Now, if I were in New York City and asked someone where I could go, that person would say, “You wanna know where to go? You can go fuck yourself; that’s where you can go, you piece of shit.” Fortunately, I wasn’t in New York. At that moment, Juanita’s husband showed up. He went by Ángel. After she explained my plight to him, they insisted that I go home with them, have dinner, meet the family, stay the night, sleep, and figure things out in the morning.
What’s the likelihood of that happening in New York City?
I asked the usual series of questions. “Are you sure? I’d be imposing. Are you sure it’s okay? Would it be OK with your family?
She answered yes to all the questions. I secretly hoped she would.
They adamantly declined my genuine offer to repay them for their kindness.
It was a short walk from the hospital (such as it was) to their place, where I thanked them around fifteen hundred times. They had a modest single-story house that was meticulously maintained. The furniture, built by Ángel, was simple but beautifully crafted. He could have sold everything for top dollar in the States. There was a son and daughter. Both were in their late teens. The daughter, Isabella, caught me off guard by kissing me on both cheeks. I later discovered that it was common for men and women to greet one another. The son, Gabriel, settled for a handshake. Thankfully. Juanita’s mother, Guadalupe, widowed for a few years, lived there, too.
The family was delightful. Kind and considerate to a fault. The teenagers had a grand old time asking me about the good old USA of America. Juanita acted as an interpreter for the night. I enjoyed talking with the teenagers. However, there was one severe and troublesome problem. The daughter was beautiful. Heartbreaking. Devastating. Minimal makeup, plain yellow dress, sublimely elegant, and utterly distracting. She was Greek Goddess material. All that crap Percy Shelley wrote was specifically about her. And no one else.
Okay. Must be careful. Don’t want anyone else in the house to be aware of what I’m thinking. Engage everyone. Equally, be cool. Don’t smile more at her. Don’t make more eye contact with her. This is not gonna be easy. Speaking of eye contact, look at her eyes AND NOTHING ELSE.
They kept throwing questions at me, and I answered them.
“Oh, no. There are many poor people in the USA. The streets aren’t paved with gold. A lot of Americans lost their jobs and the economy…”
Please stop smiling at me. You’re being nice on purpose. To make me suffer. You vicious, sadistic monster. I…I love you. “Oh, sweet mystery of life, at last I’ve found you!”
I continued answering questions and spread my attention to everyone.
“I’ve done a little traveling. I love being in Mexico! You’re all so nice and generous. Where else? Bermuda and Canada. Oh yeah, I’ve been in Isab-uh, AMSTERDAM.”
If they figure out what I’m thinking about their young, innocent, petite, pure-as-the-arctic-snow, Isabella, they’ll make me dead. Permanently dead. With no chance of recovery, dead.
“New York City? It is wild and dangerous. There’s a lot of crime, but it’s a lot of fun. You need to be careful. I’ve done the hike down the Grand Canyon. It’s beautiful. I like doing Isab-uh, SOME SKIING, in Colorado. She’s, IT’S, amazing.”
Away, foul and evil temptress. Get thee to a nunnery! Tempt me no longer, Jezebel. Little ho-bag. Thou hath tortured me, and ye shall perish in a burning cauldron of…what color panties are you wearing? I bet they’re silk. Red silk. Oh, yeah…
“You’re right across the street from your church? That’s convenient. Sure, I would love to go down, OVER, to see the church.”
There is no way I’m going to make it to the morning.
“Dinner? Dinner sounds wonderful! Thank you! What can I do to help set the red silk TABLE?”
Uh-oh. Isabella. She’s standing up and walking right in front of me. Whoa. MINE EYES HAVE SEEN THE GLORY! You tacky little tramp, treat me like the pig that I am.
Standing before the small dinner table, the five started reciting something. They looked pious about it, so I played along.
Then, the family did something cruel. They had me sit next to the daughter.
It was her turn to speak during the pre-dinner ritual. She sounded like one of those late-night deejays—smooth as her silk undies—red, silk, undies.
‘Her moans were subtle at first. Soon, her heart beat faster; her legs quivered, beads of sweat slid between her breasts. She arched her back and began her ascent to new heights of forbidden pleasure. She forgot all about her upcoming wedding to Miguel. All that mattered was this moment with this mysterious American stranger.’
“Me? No. I have no girlfriend. I am ALL ALONE. No one. Nope. All by my lonesome. Not a soul in sight. And me, with so much love to share. Call me a hopeless romantic. Ah, the dreams of finding someone to love forever…”
I must not think naughty thoughts. I must not think naughty thoughts. In her pretty yellow dress…ARGH…can’t stop…red…silk…pant…ARGH!!! Think about baseball!!! How ‘bout them Giants?
“Oh, yes. Baseball is extremely popular in Isab AMERICA. Yeah, I tried playing. I could pitch. I could not hit. I was terrible. My teammates put band-aids on my bat. I was that bad…”
Dear, let’s tell your parents about us. We can’t hide our special kind of love any longer! I want to sing to the entire world! “Sometimes when we touch, the feeling’s”…ARGH…I hate that song.
Dinner was very nice. The entire family treated me as royalty. Isabella was endearing, charming, sweet, and ultimately devastating.
We walked to their church. Once inside, I saw worshippers going through some ritual that involved candles and mumbling. I played along the best I could. There was some walking around involved. I didn’t get it. Then, folks sat in pews and mumbled some more. Isabella was fifteen feet to my left and, in mid-mumble, got on her knees.
I must not think naughty thoughts. I must not think naughty thoughts.
We finally returned to their house, and Ángel announced it was bedtime. A futon of sorts spread out in the common area. That was my bed for the night.
Oh, that’s not necessary. I’ll sleep with Isabella for a while—a month, at least. Closer to six is my guess. Please make sure we’re not disturbed.
The family walked to their respective corners. While walking to her room, Isabella turned to me. We shared a smile.
Please let me know if you need help removing that little dress in a slow, gentle, loving, and caressing fashion. I offer this service free to all my clients. In your case, I’m happy to pay.
Once I was alone, I opened my suitcase. An envelope was on top of the clothes.
Well, this could be fascinating:
Drew
I am soooo sorry. This is all my fault.
I never should have asked you to come here.
I am a horrible bitch for doing this to you and Luke.
Here’s money for you to use to fly home.
I am so, so sorry for everything.
S
Whatever.
Sara must have felt bad. The amount of money in the envelope was enough for three roundtrip tickets from Tapachula to New York City.
It didn’t entirely end the way I thought it might. It could be a fun story to tell someday. Ah, there is still some tequila in the holy and sacred suitcase. I may need to drink some. Yeah, that’s a good idea. It’s been a long day.
I didn’t give Luke and Sara much consideration. I was way too busy with Isabella.
I woke up with the rest of the family around five in the morning. They were even nicer than they were the previous night. We had breakfast. Juanita said a regional airport south of Tapachula had flights to Mexico City and Monterrey. She was kind enough to offer me a ride, so I took her up. I thanked the rest of the family a few thousand times.
I knew the family wouldn’t be thrilled if I offered some cash for their trouble. Still, I didn’t want to be some crass American who took advantage of their excellent nature and shoved off, so I took a bit of Sara’s guilt money and asked them to donate it to their church, figuring if they wanted, the family could have some fun with the dough. You’d have thought I just gave them the Hope Diamond. The women got teary-eyed, and the men gave me a two-hand handshake.
Don’t get too excited. It’s not even my money.
Juanita drove me to the airport. She was quiet and looked a little sad.
“Is everything okay? You don’t need to drive. I can catch a bus.”
“Oh, oh. Okay for driving you!”
“Did I say something that’s bothering you?”
Juanita insisted I hadn’t and claimed to be concerned for her two children, who were getting to the age where bad things could happen. The line of young men showing considerable interest in Isabella was long, and Gabriel was keen on the local girls—all of them.
Juanita went into a monologue that lasted the rest of the trip. The highly concerning and inappropriate behavior list included Gabriel being friendly with girls to whom he had not been officially introduced and Isabella saying hello to boys whose character seemed dubious.
Dubious? No eighteen-year-old boy has a dubious character. Dubious is well beyond our grasp at eighteen. Evil? Yes. Disgusting? Definitely. Reprehensible? Absolutely.
“Juanita, If Gabriel and Isabella were my kids, I’d be mighty proud. They’re miles ahead of where I was at that age. They love their family with all their hearts—that much, I know. All that love might help with the decisions they make. I hope it does. And thank you again. It was a pleasure meeting you all—an honor, now that I think about it.”
We arrived at the airport.
Juanita was weepy-eyed again. “Always have happy life.”
All of you sure do cry a lot.
“Go well. Please let your family know how much I appreciate you and them.”
The airport was comically small. Two small prop planes and a half-dozen employees stood around the tarmac. There was no tower. There was one landing strip and a lean-to that functioned as the office.
The woman behind the desk was, not surprisingly, nice.
As far as scheduled flights, they had one later that afternoon for Mexico City. The next one available was scheduled for two days later. Assuming all went as planned, the chances were good that the plane would end up in Monterrey. Eventually.
“Is Monterrey a nice place?”
The woman said that, in this case, nice was a comparative word. If she had to pick, she’d have to go with Monterrey. It wasn’t nearly as crowded. Plus, it smelled better, and the taxi drivers were much less likely to rob you at gunpoint.
I booked the flight to Monterrey.
I had two days to walk around the great city of Tapachula. There were some charming, touristy areas. Beyond those, the place was a microcosm of Mexico in 1979. Government corruption and ineptitude were plain to see. Bags of trash were strewn around. Half the streets were named Calle Hidalgo. Speaking of streets, they weren’t filled with gold—just potholes. The police and security forces consisted of despicable, trigger-happy criminals. The cars were thirty years old, and none had ever had an oil change.
Although most of Tapachula was in no better shape than Camden, New Jersey, is today, the locals were damn friendly about the whole thing. They maintained a sense of dignity and decency that’s hard to find in American cities, rich or otherwise.
For the two days I spent there, locals continually introduced themselves and, in their amiable manner, asked about life in America. Whenever I set foot in a bar (yes, believe it or not, I hit more than a couple of bars in Tapachula), the proprietors and patrons offered to buy me drinks to extend their hospitality.
After two days in Tapachula, I rewound my way to the States without incident and no wiser for the entire episode.
Just monumentally more bewildered.
Luke and Sara vanished and were never heard from again. I didn’t care to reach out, and I still don’t.
I’ve wondered how the lives of those I met in Mexico turned out. My inevitable conclusion is, “Not great.” Hopefully, those in Tapachula got out. It is now another casualty of the Mexican government’s incompetence, misconduct, dishonesty, and criminality.
What would Mexico look like had it not been a victim of foreign intrusion, corporate greed, and the horrible destructive force of its government?
Given its natural resources, it might have been a country you’d want to escape to and not from.
Unfortunately, we’ll never know.
—THE END—
SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME - the book 
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